


Something You Needed

by Provocatrixxx



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Despite having seen Bond in various states of dress and undress while running him on missions, Q has never seen Bond dressed down for the weekend. The thick jumper that he is sporting clings beautifully over his shoulder-blades and the muscles of his upper back before tapering in at the waist to showcase his jean-clad arse. The jeans themselves are well cut and obviously expensive, denim wrapped tightly around Bond’s impressively tight arse and clinging perfectly to his upper thighs as he walks. Objectively, Q knew that Bond was in good shape, but something in the cut of the jeans changes his figure from merely magnificent to utterly mesmerising.</i>
</p><p>Pure PWP. There’s a reason MI6 does not allow casual Fridays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something You Needed

**Author's Note:**

> It might be useful to know that this is pure PWP, the working title of which was 'James Bond's Arse'.

Friday morning dawns dull and grey and Q is glad to have reached the end of the week without too many unscheduled incidents. He and his staff are used to working long hours - it is a necessary hazard of the job - but the ability to send them home on time every once in a while is something Q relishes and strives for. Consequently, the main floor of Q branch has an excited air to it by the afternoon, the technicians’ usual soft chatter raised by a few decibels into an intermittent but not altogether unpleasant hum of weekend plans and anticipation.

By half past five, all but a few of the desks are empty, the large screens on the walls between each cluster displaying their soothing screensavers, bathing the office space in blue light. Being sequestered below ground has certain aesthetic advantages, Q muses, watching the screen-saver patterns move over the floor.

The sound of the lift doors opening unexpectedly makes his stomach drop a little. As much as he quietly enjoys the adrenaline rush of a mission gone wrong, there are tasks he needs to complete while his section is running a skeleton staff, and the thought of having to haul teams back in from their break early is not an enjoyable one.

Bond’s dress shoes are loud on the flooring as he steps out of the lift, and Q breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he notices his otherwise casual attire. Not a mission then.

“Oh good, it’s only you,” he says, somewhat more rudely than he had intended.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Bond asks, raising one mocking eyebrow. Q could have sworn that his mouth twitched up at the corners just a fraction however. No offence taken.

He turns back to his screen without bothering to respond - there is more than enough to occupy his time this evening without getting into another verbal sparring match. After a moment’s pause, Bond turns on his heel, heading for an occupied bank of desks directly in Q’s line of sight and Q’s eyes automatically flick up to follow the movement.

Despite having seen Bond in various states of dress and undress while running him on missions, Q has never seen Bond dressed down for the weekend. The thick jumper that he is sporting clings beautifully over his shoulder-blades and the muscles of his upper back before tapering in at the waist to showcase his jean-clad arse. The jeans themselves are well cut and obviously expensive, denim wrapped tightly around Bond’s impressively tight arse and clinging perfectly to his upper thighs as he walks. Objectively, Q knew that Bond was in good shape, but something in the cut of the jeans changes his figure from merely magnificent to utterly mesmerising.

Of course, it is as Q’s eyes are fixed on his arse that Bond choses to glance back up the room towards him. Q looks back down at his monitors again quickly, forcing his face and manner to remain impassive even as his stomach flutters with a vague pang of guilt. It is a pathetically futile effort – there is no chance that Bond hadn’t caught him looking, and the smug, self-satisfied smirk that plays over Bond’s face as he turns back away tells him all he needs to know. He wore those particular jeans to visit Q branch on purpose, fully aware of how well they display his arse, probably for the simple pleasure of getting under Q’s skin.

His deductions are confirmed when Bond reaches Natalia’s desk and rests his elbows on it to talk to her, pressing into her space with a charming smile and a doubtless smoothly delivered line. Risking a glance, Q is rewarded with an even better view of Bond’s rear, the hem of his jumper sliding up a few inches to reveal a tempting sliver of tanned skin. Q barely resists the urge to put his head in his hands in despair.

“Ianto?” Q’s youngest technician looks up from his desk. “I’ll be in the server room if anyone needs me.”

He deliberately does not look at Bond as he passes Natalia’s workstation.

***

The server room is completely secure, inaccessible to all but three people in MI6 through means of rotating codes and bio-checks. It’s as close to perfect a system as possible, and Q is proud of it, not least because it gives him a built-in excuse to disappear for a moment whenever he needs to. While he is careful not to be seen to be hiding during work hours, he can’t deny that a safe breathing space isn’t occasionally welcome. The cool air and gentle hum of the machines soothes his frazzled nerves, and he lingers over his tasks for longer than strictly necessary, methodical chasing of wires and connections serving to calm his racing mind.

It takes slightly longer than he had predicted for Bond to come in search of him. The firm rap against the door when it comes is therefore not altogether unexpected, but Q does allow himself a small smile of victory on looking up at the cameras and confirming that he has, indeed, succeeded in creating a security system that Bond won’t even try to circumvent.

“Was there something you needed?” Q asks as he releases the door.

“Yes.” Bond stands firmly on the threshold to the room, invading Q’s space but still far enough away to give the illusion of ease. His voice has taken on that smooth and soothing tone he uses when he is determined to get his own way, and Q is suddenly put in mind of a large and lazy cat toying with a dazed mouse, their harmless little flirtations belied by the sharp edges concealed just out of sight. 

The urgent chirping of the security door protesting being held open forces Q’s hand and he nods to allow Bond into the room so that it can close behind him.

“I would have thought server upgrades were below your pay-grade, Quartermaster,” Bond comments, stalking up to Q’s terminal and leaning casually against the closest cabinet, giving the appearance of being perfectly at home in his surroundings.

“I no longer allow anyone access to my server room,” Q explains, scanning through the logs for errors and ignoring the way Bond’s eyes rake up his body like a physical touch. “It’s safer to take care of things myself.” He knows he isn’t in bad shape for an officer on a desk-tour, but Q still has to fight to keep from shifting self-consciously as Bond unabashedly sizes him up and down. His mouth quirks up in a deliberate smirk at Q’s comment, and he straightens languidly, moving into Q’s personal space as though he belongs there.

“Oh?” he purrs. Q pushes his keyboard back into its place in the cabinet and turns sharply, closing the space between them. “You should learn to share, Q,” Bond muses, reaching out to smooth some imaginary crease out of Q’s cardigan.

“I don’t share, 007.” Q replies, tugging on Bond’s open collar in response, revealing another few inches of tanned skin. “I don’t drink coffee in the mornings; I don’t get out of bed before eight;” Bond’s jumper is cashmere and smooth under Q’s palms as he runs them slowly down Bond’s chest, “and I don’t fuck in Q Branch.”

Bond’s hands catch Q’s wrists in a firm grip, walking him back up against a server cabinet. “Lucky I brought my car then, isn’t it?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of Q’s ear.

***

Bond drives like he does everything else, reckless, confident and in total control. The city speeds past Q’s window, grey and cold and dull, streaked with rain and tempered with the lull between the afternoon rush and the early evening party-goers. The comfortable silence inside the car gives Q time to disappear into his own head, and he is hit with the momentary revelation that they have finally stopped dancing around whatever has been between them since their first meeting.

“Having second thoughts?” Bond asks as he glides around a bend, accelerating out of the apex with a smooth change of gear, muscles in his arms flexing as he changes.

“Not a chance,” Q answers, and is amazed to find the truth of it. Whatever it is between them, he’s determined to see it through. In truth, he has wanted Bond in his bed since their first meeting, since he realised that Bond was not a blunt instrument at all but had a razor-honed wit to match his intimidating physical presence. 

“Why? Are you getting cold feet?”

Bond doesn’t answer the taunt with words, just presses his foot down on the accelerator until the city is a blur and Q has to grip the bottom of his seat for balance in spite of himself.

***

Bond’s flat is almost exactly what Q had been expecting, a smart and spacious bachelor pad just off the main way in Knightsbridge. The carpet on the main stairs is thick and cream, and for a moment, Q feels out of place with Bond holding the door open and ushering him into the mirrored lift.

The look so odd together, he thinks as he glances at their reflections, the skinny clever tech and the smooth, put together assassin. He is assuaged once the lift starts to move however, and Bond reaches out to settle his hand possessively on Q’s wrist, fingertips resting on Q’s pulse.

The interior of Bond’s flat is just as smart and comfortable as the hallway had suggested, but Q has little time to take in the decorating as Bond eases his laptop bag out of his hand and puts it down carefully before pressing Q up against the wall in imitation of their pose in the server room.

“I suppose you don’t fuck in hallways either?” he asks, bringing his arms up to rest against the wall, caging Q’s head. There is electricity in the air now, a single moment of decision now that the game has shifted and they are firmly on Bond’s turf. Q can feel the heat radiating from him where their bodies do not quite touch, a whisper everything promised.

Q has no words with which to answer, so he leans forwards instead, pressing their lips together hard in a simple kiss. It doesn’t stay simple for long, and Q feels heat and tension coiling up in his spine as he opens his mouth to Bond’s insistent tongue, their bodies pressed tight against one another until he is truly trapped by Bond’s bulk. It is thrilling and gorgeous and Q sinks into it wholeheartedly, chasing Bond’s tongue with his own until they are breathing only in ragged pants, hips just starting to shift in search of friction.

“God, Q,” Bond sighs, pulling away fractionally to nuzzle into Q’s neck, a hint of teeth just under Q’s chin when he tips his head back. “I could have you right here.”

Q does not beg, or whine, but it is a very close thing as Bond nips lightly on his earlobe before suckling on the thin, sensitive skin just below. He is not usually so content to let his lovers have control, but Bond is like a force of nature and Q is merely riding the wave that he creates.

“I hear that beds are more comfortable,” he manages to get out, “for encounters such as these.”

That prompts an amused laugh which vibrates through Bond’s chest and Q is left suddenly cold as Bond pulls away, rocking back onto his heels for a moment and looking at Q as though he can read every thought that passes through Q’s mind. Whatever he sees, it seems it is enough and he turns sharply on his heel once more, padding through the dimly lit flat to his bedroom, peeling layers off as he goes.

Q follows more slowly, eyes fixed once again on the way the dark denim perfectly frames Bond’s arse, hugging him as he moves.

***

A short while later, Q finds himself spread out on Bond’s bed, the soft sheets with their doubtless ridiculous thread counts cradling him as Bond runs his hands and lips over every inch of Q’s body, lighting a fire under his skin that leads straight to his cock. Bond’s body is every bit as toned and golden as the lines of his clothing had suggested, littered with the ghosts of injuries long forgotten, pale spider-web trails that Q traces with the tips of his fingers. One day he will tie Bond down and learn the story that is mapped across his skin, but not tonight. Tonight, Q is content to drink in the sight of them both moving in sync with each other, touching and teasing and content to get nowhere fast.

Bond's hands are knowing and warm, seeking out all the places that make Q moan and whimper, in no particular hurry to get anywhere at all. Q is not generally given to being so passive a lover, but the feeling of Bond worshiping his entire body is too gorgeous and tempting to resist, and he arches in luxurious abandon as Bond's fingers finally slide between his thighs, gentle pads circling his hole as he sucks the head of Q's cock into his mouth. 

It is the most exquisite torture, his hips cradled in Bond's strong hands so that he can do little more than lie back and take whatever Bond gives him, the deep burn and stretch of Bond's fingers working him open not the least bit unpleasant.

When Bond finally draws back, Q is left needy and shivering, arching off the bed for another second's worth of contact, no longer caring how he debauched he must look. Whatever Bond sees in his pose makes him smile, a genuine one that takes the severity from his face, and he reaches up to smooth a stray tendril of hair from Q's forehead. It is such a simple gesture, but Q feels himself fraying apart at the edges, at once wanting more than Bond will ever be willing give him.

It has been a while for Q. MI6 is suspicious of relationships, and one night stands are rarely satisfying enough to be worth all the trouble. Once Bond has retrieved the lube and condoms, Q pushes him down onto his back, straddling his hips and sinking down slowly. The muscles in Bond's stomach tense and release as he struggles to keep still. He lets Q set the pace for a while, eyes closed tight and face half-turned into the pillow as Q rolls his hips and concentrates on finding just the right angle.

When Bond begins to move against him it is like sparks showering Q's skin, every breathless thrust sending new waves of pleasure through his already overstimulated body until he is shaking with it, collapsing onto Bond's stomach with a soft noise and grasping at Bond's shoulders for dear life. There are no clever words between them now, no struggles for power that are edged with sharp steel. Nowhere to hide, Q realises. Bond kisses him, touches his hips and his back, all the while driving into him over and over, smooth and controlled and perfectly calculated to drive Q over the edge until he is a shaking mess spilling over Bond's stomach without his cock ever having been touched.

"So lovely," Bond whispers, pulling him back into the cage of his arms, his thrusts deeper and more ragged now. Even in his half-dazed state, Q is suddenly very aware of just how powerful Bond's body is, how easily he could break Q in half. It is utterly thrilling, and he turns his head to bite into the thick muscle of Bond's neck, feels more than hears the sound that is ripped from Bond as he comes, tightening his hold on Q.

For a long moment, Q allows himself to be held, matching his breathing to Bond's and feeling the thudding heart beat as it echoes through his chest.

"Something you needed?" he nuzzles into Bond's neck once he has his breath back.

"You have no idea," Bond tells him.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about entirely because of this photo:
> 
>  


End file.
